Hate The Player
by Louciferish
Summary: Neville Longbottom has an unexpected run-in with a fugitive in a bar. - written before Deathly Hallows came out so it ignores all of that.


Neville still wasn't a drinker, even after everything he'd lived through. The press at the time of the last great war had managed to make him into a household name and a recognizable face. He was no Harry Potter, but he was Someone Who Lived, so it was common for men to approach him in bars and restaurants, offer to buy him a drink. He never could bring himself to refuse kindness, but the strangers always walked away disappointed. Neville had no glorious stories to tell.

He went to bars very rarely finally, always alone because people frequently had no regard for whether he had company or not, and dates didn't usually appreciate being interrupted. The only magical establishments he frequented were the ones like he was sitting in that night, underground hot spots for witches and wizards located in Muggle towns, places where those living among non-magic folk could congregate with those who understood them.

"Excuse me," a young female voice lilted from across the bar right on cue. "I've got a drink for you."

Neville looked up and saw some bizarre, fruity thing in her hand. It was in a tall glass and was striped in magically twining swirls of red and gold that looked like they must be strawberry and orange or something similar. There was a little green umbrella with an apple slice speared on it sticking out of the top. "Thanks," Neville said dubiously, taking the glass. "You didn't have to do that."

The girl giggled and flipped her blond hair, bouncing on her toes. "It's not from me, handsome. It's from the man at the booth." She gestured over to a corner of the bar with a flash of pink-tipped nail and Neville craned his neck to follow her hand, but all he could see in the dusky atmosphere was a vague masculine silhouette hunched over a table.

He shrugged and tipped the waitress, who sprung off to more alluring custom, before raising the drink cautiously to his lips. The taste alone nearly knocked him off his stool. While the drink appeared icy, it was actually quite warm, filling his palate with the flavors of cinnamon and cookie dough, leaving no doubt in his mind that it had been created by magical means. The taste was delicious, but it was unexpectedly backed up with copious quantities of whiskey. Neville hunched over the right side of his barstool and coughed up his liver, glad that his benefactor wasn't nearby to see it. Most people who bought him drinks wound up thoroughly unimpressed when they realized he didn't particularly enjoy the taste of straight alcohol, nor could he hold it well.

Once he'd straightened back up, he took another tentative sip of his drink and enjoyed the burst of flavor. Obviously the key was small quantities, which was really how he preferred it. After a couple more sips he started to think that the drink really suited him quite well, despite its flamboyant appearance, and that whoever had bought it for him surely deserved something in return. He slid down from the dragonhide barstool, giving it a fond pat, and picked his drink up before gathering himself to cross the room and thank the stranger himself.

He didn't expect the booth to be home to Severus Snape, triple agent spy in the great war and former potions professor and boggart. "P-P-Professor Snape!" Neville stuttered out, then flushed hotly. He hadn't stuttered in years.

"Good evening, Mister Longbottom," the man drawled, leaning back in his booth. "Please do sit down. I take it you received my gift?"

Neville was suddenly overcome by the urge to drop his drink and run to the bathroom to purge. A wanted criminal, a master of poisons, and he'd been drinking so eagerly! Instead, he slid into the other seat. "Yes, s-sir," he said as calmly as he could manage. "It's quite g-g-good."

"I knew a mother once who enjoyed it. It seemed to fit you."

Neville wasn't sure if that was meant as an insult or not, but it was probably safest to assume so. He didn't think Snape was talking about his own mother. "Do you," he whispered, shocked at a sudden thought. "Do you live here?" What he wanted to ask was "Do you live near me?", but he was scared too. He wanted a new house.

"No," Snape replied, leaning forward, and Neville saw that his long hair was still long, still greasy, and apparently completely silver. "I'm on the run, as always, from the Baying Hounds of the Ministry. I'm only passing through."

"You're not actually charged with anything, you know. I mean, treason, but it's all so tangled up really it just means they want you to tell. You could give up."

"No," the man said. "I can't tell. I can't make anything simpler for them. And… I'm frightened of what they'll do when they have me and they find that out."

The lights flickered in the bar, getting brighter and dimming again, but not before Neville noticed the glint of glass against the wall of the booth. The professor had quite a collection of empty drink glasses.

"You don't have to be scared," Neville said kindly to the drunk man facing him. "It'll all be alright."

Snape's head fell forward, masking his face in shadows, and his shoulders shook just briefly before he leaned forward onto the table top. A moment later, Neville heard the distinct groan of snoring.

He stood and patted his pockets for a moment before pulling out a business card, which he slipped under his former teacher's limp hand. Neville Longbottom, Attorney at Law.

He slipped out the door, unnoticed by the other patrons, and got in his car, starting it to head home. As he pulled out of the driveway the radio cranked into an old Muggle rock song that he'd never really cared for before. Now, rather than turning it off, he smiled.

"Pleased to meet you," he mouthed, singing softly. "Hope you guess my name, but what's puzzling you is the nature of my game…"


End file.
